


Washing Machine Heart

by fieryphrazes



Series: fieryfemlock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bisexual Character, F/F, Female John Watson, Female Sherlock Holmes, Female Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Femlock, Ficlet, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Genderswap, Lesbian Character, One Shot, Songfic, i don't think this even qualifies as angst, makeup as metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 05:24:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15901764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fieryphrazes/pseuds/fieryphrazes
Summary: Sherlock wears lipstick religiously. Joan sees it as a barrier between her and the rest of the world. So what's she supposed to think when Sherlock starts coming to their dates with bare lips?





	Washing Machine Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Mitski's Washing Machine Heart, which I absolutely cannot get out of my head.
> 
> I'm also on tumblr as fieryphrazes & love feedback in all forms

Joan couldn’t figure it out.

Sherlock never left the flat without lipstick – her warpaint, Joan called it, which never failed to earn an eye-roll.

Now here they were, months into a tenuous but enthusiastic relationship, albeit not one similar to any in Joan’s past. There had been no midnight confessions, no crisis of sexuality, no drunken kisses. Just a homicidal maniac and a series of tender glances that slowly manifested into physicality.

Just life with Sherlock.

But here they were. Sherlock’s lips, so often scarlet or a deep burgundy, were increasingly bare.

Joan had always spent too much time thinking about Sherlock’s mouth, but now she found a true puzzle, rather than a welcome distraction.

Crime scenes still earned a color. So did the grocery shopping, when Sherlock stooped to help with household chores. A summit with Mycroft wouldn’t be complete without a swipe of black lipstick (after the discovery that it irked Mycroft, Sherlock had dutifully worn it since age 16).

The pattern suddenly occurred to Joan on a night when she’d forced Sherlock out of the flat. They were at a nicer-than-usual Thai restaurant, eating in, when she connected the dots.

When it was just the two of them, Sherlock left behind her warpaint.

Joan watched each bite of red curry make its way to Sherlock’s bare mouth. Soon enough, Sherlock was dissecting Joan just as intensely. Joan imagined she could see the shift behind her eyes, that she could see Sherlock become… sweeter somehow.

After that, Joan had other things to think about.

 

But she came back to the lipstick week after week. She’d been working to carve out moments with Sherlock; a dinner reservation here, a walk in the park there. And each time, Sherlock walked out of 221B without reaching for the bag that held dozens of shades. It seemed there was a color for every occasion save one: a date with Joan.

It chilled Joan a bit, thinking that Sherlock didn’t care about impressing her. She practically dressed down for their outings. Joan at least tried to look smart, but Sherlock couldn’t even be bothered to put on her daily face.

 

One soft smile from Sherlock changed Joan’s entire outlook.

The shift came one night when they walked home from a concert. Joan had gotten tickets to the symphony and surprised Sherlock. Well, not quite a surprise. Sherlock had deduced that Joan was planning something, but hadn’t nailed down the specifics.

They’d just turned onto Baker Street when Sherlock slipped her hand into Joan’s and shot her a painfully tender smile. Joan felt herself bloom, and was suddenly overwhelmingly grateful that she was allowed to see behind the curtain. That Sherlock was her true self with Joan. That she left her warpaint at home.

From that night on, Joan saw the bare lips as something to be treasured: Sherlock had nowhere to hide, not from Joan.

 

They went on like this for months; Sherlock carefully lining her lips for crime scenes and clients, and staying deliciously bare for Joan. One night as they lay in bed, Joan cupped Sherlock’s face in her hand. She dropped kisses over her neck and listened as Sherlock’s breath quickened. And she was glad that Sherlock didn’t need to get up, not even once, to wipe off any pigment. It was just Sherlock.

 

Once, Joan said it out loud. She didn’t even realize that it was being mentioned for the first time. Sherlock looked baffled.

“You know,” Joan explained, “how you don’t wear lipstick for me. Because I see you.”

Sherlock cocked her head to one side, uncharacteristically confused. “It doesn’t _mean_ anything,” she explained callously. “It’s not a metaphor, Joan.”

Joan couldn’t stop a prick of disappointment from running through her spine.

“What is it, then?” she asked. Sherlock just shrugged.

“I thought maybe we would kiss tonight,” she said.

Joan looked at Sherlock’s studied casualness, barely holding itself together, and burst out laughing.

“You’re an idiot,” she said. Sherlock looked shocked, but thawed rather quickly when Joan ran a hand through her hair, squared up her shoulders, and pressed a firm kiss directly on Sherlock’s mouth.

 

No lipstick. Just them. Sherlock and Joan.


End file.
